


The Drawing

by InNeedOfInspiration



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Romanogers - Fandom, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 20:46:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15127508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InNeedOfInspiration/pseuds/InNeedOfInspiration
Summary: Will Natasha someday agree to let herself be drawn by Steve?





	The Drawing

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s note: I would like to dedicate this OS to James Cameron, Jack Dawson and Rose Dewitt-Bukater who inspired me this glorious story!

“I didn’t know you liked drawing,” she said the first time she found out about his hidden hobby. They were in his apartment in New York a few months after Steve had officially joined S.H.I.E.L.D, having beers he drank mechanically more for its socializing part than any physical effect. He had got up to get two new bottles in the fridge when she reached out for the leather sketchbook on the coffee table. She asked permission to look at it with a flicker in his direction; he agreed with a shrug.

“You’re not half bad,” Natasha commented musingly, flicking through the pages as he came back to sit in the couch next to her.

“This is probably the strongest compliment I’ve ever received,” he answered, making the corner of her mouth rise slightly.

Buildings, objects, streets, his most hazardous sketches were landscapes. “Not bad at all,” she mumbled, barely audible.

Steve watched her from the corner of his eye. He’d never considered he had any talent but it certainly was a peaceful way of spending time the nights he could hardly find sleep.

“So where are your French girls?” she exclaimed swiftly going through all the pages. He shot her a quizzical look. She stared back blankly.

“Titanic?” she ventured with an arched eyebrow. He shook his head apologetically. “You have some serious catching up to do.”

“I’m nearly through the list. I’ve just finished Star Wars,” he said after taking a sip of his beer and reclining on the back of the couch.

“Shame. I was kind of proud of my joke.” She paused when she saw some of his portraits: an elderly man sitting on a bench, feeding the birds; a mother and her child walking along the street and holding hands; a young lover looking at his girlfriend while she’s reading a book in the park.

Her fingers brushed over the features of their faces, her pupils dove into their frozen looks and expressions. For a brief second, she looked impressed — one recognizable expression he had never seen cross her face before. He could have drawn it — her— had she agreed to it, had they been in that kind of close relationship. But she was just his teammate —a colleague— he’d happen to have a few beers with some Friday evenings.

“Are you thinking about drawing me, Captain Rogers?” she interrupted his musing as if she had read his thoughts like an open book. She did that a lot.

A smirk was playing on her lips. She watched him intently and silence seemed to settle in between for longer than ever before. She raised her index finger and slowly waved right and left before his face. “Never,” she warned.

He chuckled. “Why not?” he said.

“Because you’re clearly good at it,” she answered matter-of-factly like it was the most incontestable argument and reached for her beer.

He frowned, quite perplexed. She looked at him closely and her jovial expression seemed to have dropped a little.

“You can look into souls, Steve.” Her voice was deep, yet serene. “And I’m a spy. I couldn’t possibly grant you access to mine.”

Her answer — and the brutal honesty of it — took him by surprise. Her features looked noticeably tense as it was quite an unusual sight. It hit him that Natasha Romanoff would not allow herself to be vulnerable with anyone.

“At least not without a fight,” she added with humor again as she nonchalantly dropped the sketchbook back on the table.

She didn’t know — or maybe she did — but she had just sparked in him a whole new curiosity, raw and inextinguishable.

* * *

Natasha was a steady constant in his life, more than he could count. She was present when he needed help for taking down HYDRA and S.H.I.E.L.D.; she stood by him, watching the sky, when it looked impossible to save all the Sokovians trapped on the flying city; she walked by his side when it came to training the new Avengers; she was here to comfort him when he lost Peggy; she jeopardized her freedom when she let him and Bucky escape the US government. And now she was running along after they became international fugitives.

She traded a long-deserved steady life for one of a runaway. They never stayed in the same motel — often slummy, although she preferred the word quaint— more than three nights. Steve borrowed more cars than he could remember. They traveled light, and Sam was often the one bringing them a new bag of clothes and toiletries for their timely spaced secret rendezvous.

One morning, Nat casually dropped she would dye her freshly trimmed hair blonde. “Your growing stubbles inspired me,” she teased.

One night in New Orleans on Mardis Gras, they silently partook in the city celebrations across the French Quarter. There was no better place than a busy, festive and heavily boozed crowd to disappear completely. They had “discreetly” taken up residence in the uninhabited house of a sketchy entrepreneur who was often gone to South America for long periods of time for business.

Leaning on the railing of the balcony, Natasha pensively watched the chariot parade down the streets congested with the people partying. It was her idea to come down and join them.

“You can’t say away from the world forever,” she said. Stepping out of the main door, she took his hand and pulled him into the crowd to blend in.

They strolled down the streets amid the party people who were dancing along the spellbinding percussions of the drums and upbeat melodies of the saxophones. Petals and confetti were flying in the air in a unique outburst of colors and glitters. For that one night, quietness was banned from the city.

She slid her fingers between his and he let himself be pulled him further down into the crowd as she grabbed a pint of the beer off the silver tray hovering nearby and gulped it down with an unquenchable thirst born from the hectic crowd surrounding them.

She slowly let herself be immersed, lured into the general trance. She began to trot along the rhythm of the drums.

She spun around to face him. They could barely keep steady amid the force of the moving parade. Her cheeks were slightly flushed and she was breathing loudly as a fine layer of sweat was beginning to glint on her neck and down her bosom. She pressed herself against him and wrapped an arm around his neck, gently pulling him down to her.

He could feel the heavy pounding of her heart reverberate across his chest. Her velvety lips grazed against the lobe of his ear and her warm breath tickled his skin — he shut his eyelids and bit his bottom lip to make himself switch off his aroused senses.

“Let yourself go,” she whispered into his ear, the tip of her fingers lightly brushing the back of his neck, right below his hairline. “I can help you.”

She pulled away and gazed into his eyes, begging him with an adorable smile mixed with a slightly malicious leer. He took a deep breath in: they had been on the run for nearly two months and so far they had been doing it well, surely he could allow themselves a night off the constant worry and paranoia. She had given up everything for him; he owed her a night of freedom, no matter how short and illusory it was — as they were both bitterly aware.

He gave her a nod and her smile grew wider. The jazz band was now walking up to their level and she grabbed his other hand as an invitation to dance.

The compelling motion of her hair rippling in the air — a few locks messily falling over half her face—, the way her body captivatingly moved so close to him were all a temptation he found more and more difficult to resist. He dropped his hands to her waist and with a faint grin, she gently slid her hands up his bare forearms up to his elbows, closing the gap between their two bodies.

They had never been physically so close for so long, and it was more delectable than it had been in the many wild dreams he had had of her.

She slowly swayed her hips under his palms as they seemed to the ones controlling her and pressed herself against him again, breathing in his scent with her eyes closed, swiftly running the tip of her tongue along her bottom lip before biting lip.

She ran her fingers into the long, blond locks of his hair and his forehead dropped into her neck. He could smell her natural scent coming through the vanilla balm of her perfume. The maroon, cotton top she was wearing was slightly moist, just as his shirt.

Some locks of her hair were stuck on her temples with the sweat. His hands wandered onto parts of her body he had never dared to imagine to explore one day. Natasha was laughing ecstatically into the crook of his neck — her state of exhilaration was contagious.

Nobody paid attention to them, and for the first time in the past months of running, he felt like they were truly alone.

Still dancing, she nearly tripped, lost her balance and fell backward but he caught her with a strong arm wrapped around her back. She let her head drop backward, her lips almost brushing his mouth in the motion and looked up at the starry sky with the same excitement as a moment before. He frowned a little, getting a little concerned. Her pupils dropped back to look at him.

“I need air,” she gasped with the same euphoric smile across her face. “Let’s go.”

He nodded and she stood upright before making her way out of the crowd.

The walked along the deserted streets back to their improvised, super luxurious AirBnB.

She stepped into the house without a word and went into the bathroom. A few seconds later, he heard the water running.

Steve went out to the balcony again, watching the crowd far in the distance as the music began to die down. The air had become more bearable and a pleasant cool wind brushed against him while the sky still smelled of the ongoing festivities. He lost himself on the beauty of this new stillness for long minutes.

“Steve?” he eventually heard a soft voice coming from inside the room. He stepped back inside and found her standing in a silky robe, her hair damp. She looked fresh and soberer than an hour before.

“You okay?” he asked quietly. She ignored his question and her eyes flicker to his travel bag.

“You haven’t drawn in a while,” she remarked pensively. “Why?”

The random question surprised him. He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I haven’t been able to see the beauty in the world lately.”

His words linger on in the quiet room. The answer seemed to dissatisfy her.

“But can you see it in me?” she asked barely audibly, staring at the book.

He watched her as she stood before him. “You…you’re perfection,” he murmured.

Her green eyes looked up at him, boldly hopeful.

She had a faint, sad smile. “I’m hardly perfect. I’ve done so many wrongs.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” he cut her in.

They looked into each other’s eyes and that was enough for her to understand what he meant.

She walked to pick up the sketchbook then over to him. “I want you to draw me, Steve,” she said, handing him the book. She dove her eyes into his. “Please.”

He furrowed his brows. “I thought you —”

“I know,” she said. She shook her head then looked at him again. “I changed my mind. I want you to see me…” Her pupils darkened. “All of me.”

Her fingers ventured down and his eyes followed along as they gently took hold of the silk belt. She untied it then, putting her hands on each side of the robe, gently took it off. The silky fabric slid off her shoulders to her feet, revealing her splendid naked figure.

She raised her chin and plunged her green eyes into his. He swallowed the lump and cleared his throat.

Part of him wanted to protest, or at least warned her his drawing might not be so good due to months of lack of practice, but he realized Natasha wasn’t just asking for a portrait. She was offering her soul up to him. She was letting herself be vulnerable in every way possible because she trusted him, and he simply couldn’t deny her that. Truth be told, he had been waiting for the moment she would lay herself bare to him for years now (not that he had ever imagined it would happen so literally).

He nodded bashfully and pulled a chair up to him while she went to lie down in the antique sofa in the middle room.

She lay on her side, draping one arm along her body, the hand gently pressed on her hip. Steve revelled in the sight before him and the perfection of her silhouette. She was, truly, exquisite to behold.

“Draw me like one of your French girls,” she said and they both chuckled at the movie reference (he had had time to catch up with).

With a pounding heart, he opened his sketchbook, firmly held his pencil and finally let his eyes fall on her. The glimmer coming from the wall lights sheened on her fair, smooth skin. His eyes traveled across her body like his hands were aching to do. He traced the curves of her hip, the arc of her small waist, the fullness of her bosoms, the sharpness of her collarbone. He noticed how her chest rose and dropped heavily for each breath she took, and the pink on her cheeks that was not due to shyness but to the thrill of the moment. Perhaps had she seen he had it, too.

The curves of her body were calling for his running fingers, her velvety skin was calling for his soft palm, her slightly trembling lips were calling for his mouth. He chased those thoughts away with a new brush of the lead onto the paper.

He, who hadn’t been inspired to sketch anything for the past moments, somehow couldn’t stop drawing who he had found to be a bottomless source of inspiration. After the first portrait, he drew her again, and again, in different positions.

She next lay on her stomach, prepped the upper part of her body onto her elbows and crossed her ankles up in the air, looking at him, half of her voluminous, wavy hair falling across half of her face, with a smile on.

Delightfully aware of the effect she had on him, their roles reversed, and he found himself trapped in the scope of her eyes. She watched him with a satisfied smirk on lips as he was contemplating her figure all the way across the room. She couldn’t resist nibbling her little finger to hold back her giggles.

Scoping each other in an endless loop, the drawing continued long into the night, even after the last drumming sounds died in the dark.

When his fingers couldn’t hold the pencil anymore until it dropped onto the carpet, Natasha fell backward into the cushions, looking up at the ceiling. One of her arms fell off the sofa and her fingertips brushed the fabric on the floor into small circles. She tilted her head and looked at him.

“I never would have thought that a drawing session would be so thrilling,” she breathed out before biting her lip.

She allowed him to come closer by waving her index finger. Steve got up and made his way to her. He halted and stooped to pick up her robe. Reaching the sofa, he stood above her and relished the sight one last time. He held the robe open. Defying him with a suggestive look, she raised her arm, daring him to retract on his offer. Her fingers clutched the fabric and she yanked it down strongly, making him come down to his knees before her. His face was only a few inches away from her.

Her expression turned serious. “Didn’t what you found scare you?” she asked, her pupils searching into his.

He shook his head. If he could indeed look into souls like she believed then what he had found was far more beautiful than the heavenly sight of her figure. “Like I said, you’re perfection.”

She snorted lightly, seeming to hold herself back as she briefly glanced away. When she looked at him again, her eyes were faintly gleaming with tears.

“Touch me, Steve.”

His pupils tremble. She reached for his hand down the sofa and lifted it up. “I want you to touch me.”

His lips were dry, as was his throat. His heart, which had finally accustomed to the thrill of the past hours, raced again.

“I don’t know if I could,” he confessed with a murmur.

She smiled. “I don’t want you to stop.”

He moved his hand closer, hovering above her body. The tip of his fingers carefully brushed against her side, slowly going down her shoulder, along her waist, to the border of her trunk leaving a trail of goosebumps; his thumb brushed over her hipbone.

He paused and frowned when his fingers brushed over the scar on her stomach. He crouched over and laid a kiss, gentle and loving, on it as her tummy rose up and down at a panting pace.

“Perfection,” he repeated to himself.

He made love to her like the exalted artist to his muse.

 


End file.
